


Riding the Veilstorm

by CeleritasSagittae



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, And running it through Inquisition, Dragon Age Remix Fest 2017, Established Relationship, Ex-Templar Alistair, F/M, I promise you it'll be worth it, Nameless Protagonist/Narrator, Taking the AU established in the original fic when only Origins and Awakening were released, Templar Alistair (Dragon Age), Well - Freeform, also neither he nor the mage were Grey Wardens, because he was actually a templar in this universe despite all his wishes, he's quit the lyrium and everything, look just read the fic this is remixing okay?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-07
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2020-04-12 01:53:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19122202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CeleritasSagittae/pseuds/CeleritasSagittae
Summary: After helping Warden Mahariel defeat the Blight, she and Alistair planned to enjoy their freedom from the Chantry.  But the world around them keeps changing, whether they like it or not, and it’s hard not to get caught in the wake.A sequel to (and remix of)DistractionbyTrulyCertain.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TrulyCertain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrulyCertain/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Distraction](https://archiveofourown.org/works/527198) by [TrulyCertain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrulyCertain/pseuds/TrulyCertain). 



> This is a sequel to and remix of [TrulyCertain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrulyCertain/pseuds/TrulyCertain)'s [Distraction](https://archiveofourown.org/works/527198/chapters/933378), and thus refers to events and includes original characters from that fic. If you haven't read it before, you should; and if you have, you should read it again, because it's that good.
> 
> Oh, and this fic will make more sense if you're familiar with the original, too; but really, you should just read it. The fic will still be waiting for you when you're done.

The eddies of discontent swarm into a maelstrom, and this is how it catches them: with a bedraggled knock on the door, on the kind of night that only people locked in a tower half their lives can appreciate.

Alistair is on his month at Fort Connor, so she wraps the Fade close around her before she opens the door.  Her visitor peers behind her, then, with a desperate sort of shrug, peels his sodden hood away from his face.

“ _Joseph_?”

He cranes his head to the side again.  “Your templar isn’t here, is he?”

“His name is Alistair, and he hasn’t been a templar for years.”  She gives an exasperated sigh.  “No, he isn’t here.”

“That’s all I needed to know,” Joseph says, pushing past her and closing the door behind him.  He lights the hearth with a wave of his hand, drops his cloak on the floor, and flings himself into a chair.  “Do have a spare bedroom?  Something hot to eat?”

Tomorrow's porridge is on the hob, but it won’t be ready for hours.  “Tea and toasted cheese?”

He nods and leans back in the chair, resting his eyes shut.  They’re sunken, and there’s a wicked-looking scar pulling across his cheek.  At least three days’ worth of stubble grows beneath a mustache that looks as if a mouse crawled onto his upper lip and died.

She's almost surprised she recognized him.  “Void, Joseph, what _happened_?”

He lets out a wry chuckle.  “Kirkwall.”

They’d heard the rumors, of course—who hadn’t?  The Circle was blown sky-high; the Knight-Commander was assassinated by fifty Crows; the Circle was annulled; the entirety of Kirkwall’s clergy was sacrificed in a blood magic ritual that turned the First Enchanter into some sort of ludicrous dwarven monster...  There was no way to learn the truth, which only made the rumors worse.

So she listens as she puts the kettle on to boil, to a tale at once so outlandish and so familiar that she can’t shake the feeling that their little cottage with the oak tree was its own island of sorts.  There’s too much to hear, at first, but she catches the broad strokes: Anders—bright, laughing Anders, who had the best dirty jokes to share, who said he’d _work_ on Joseph—stolen away to Kirkwall, Joseph on his tail, years and years of helping mages escape the Gallows, and then—an explosion, a murder, a Champion’s treachery, a desperate escape.  When the tale is done, she sips at her tea mutely and watches Joseph make toast with his fingers.  “Anders... is dead?”

Joseph nods, and she can see the heartbreak in his eyes.  “He... was hardly himself in the end... at times.  And then other times you’d look at him and it was as if nothing had changed.  He knew what Hawke would do to him; that’s why he wouldn’t tell me.”

She doesn’t even know why she asks the question.  “Would you have helped him?”

“You would’ve, too,” he says darkly, “if you’d seen the Gallows.”

She falls silent at that—there's simply no way to _know_ , she tells herself, so there's no point in dwelling on it.

Joseph is licking toast crumbs from his fingers.

Suddenly she reaches across and lays her hand on his arm.  “Stay with us,” she says, “for as long as you can.  We’re well enough off, and we have a spare bed.”

For all his earlier presumption, Joseph looks surprised.  “You’re sure your... Alistair won’t mind?”

“Of course he won’t mind,” she replies.  “You’re my friend.”

Alistair doesn’t mind, as much as the truth of Kirkwall’s calamities disturbs him.  Joseph stays with them for two weeks before he decides the risk is too great, and departs in the middle of the night.  He’s tired of running, he told her the day prior, but he didn’t say where he’d go.

And Alistair wraps his arms around her when they sit beneath the stars, making up silly tales to match the constellations.

* * *

“What would you have done, if the Circle— _our_ Circle—was annulled?” she asks him as she kneads.  No templars have come knocking on their door yet, but a month ago Caron sent them a very fancy-looking writ sealed with a silver griffon to present to anyone who doubts they belong here.

Alistair looks up from the mail he’s been cleaning.  “Died defending you,” he says matter-of-factly.

She huffs a sigh, even as her heart surges with warmth.  “Before me, then.”

“Er... panicked?”  He sets down his mail.  “I don't know; I... tried _really_ hard not to think about it.  Most people don’t typically daydream about getting ordered to slaughter innocents...”—she looks back at him, sees the sad smile ghosting his lips—“contrary to popular belief.  I’d like to think that I shouldn’t have had the heart to do it, though—no, I _wouldn’t_ , I’m certain of that.  And... on the _off_ chance that I had... well, I shouldn’t like to meet the person he’d become.”  He stands up and rests his chin on her.  “What's brought this on, anyhow?”

But she doesn't have to answer him.  They both already know.

* * *

It feels just like the weeks before Uldred’s uprising, only _more_ , and they vow to one another that this time they’ll be prepared.  Mahariel taught them how to gut and smoke meat, if it comes to the worst, and while Alistair isn’t the greatest with a crossbow, a little lightning rarely misses.  They purchase a tent, and bedrolls, and stow them near the back door, along with a week’s worth of provisions and a few favorite books.  The rest can be left behind in minutes.

When they catch word of White Spire, Alistair speaks with Arl Teagan, and receives a leave of absence.  She lets him take it, meeting his assurances that he knows she can defend herself with a bemused smile.  They’ve already lived through the terror of trying to find one another amid blood and ruin—she’d rather not repeat it.

So focused they are on the storm at the horizon that they don’t even realize they haven’t heard from Caron or any of their friends in the Grey Wardens until Leliana’s letter.  Entire outposts in Orlais abandoned, the Left Hand writes, and no word from Amaranthine or Soldier’s Peak.  She rifles through old correspondence, and with a sinking heart, replies that their last letter arrived six months ago, with no hint of anything amiss.  She copies the letter nonetheless.

Queen Anora lets the mages settle in Redcliffe at Teagan’s behest, and the Grand Enchanter asks her to join them.  The invitation does not extend to Alistair.

She turns them down.

And then the fighting reaches their corner of Ferelden.

They’re standing at the door, packs in hand, when there’s a knock from outside.  Alistair slowly opens it, shield at the ready, but it’s not one of the brigands pillaging under the guise of war.  It’s Ari, from the farm next to theirs, and she’s clutching at her stomach with reddened hands.

“If you’ve ever considered proving the rumors about you true,” she says, leaning heavily on the doorpost, “now would be an excellent time.”

Her healing isn’t as good as Anders’ or Wynne’s ( _were_ , the treacherous thought enters her mind), but she does what she can.  She’s stunned—none of their neighbors had ever let on that they knew she was a mage.

She and Alistair exchange a look.  They can’t leave these people here defenseless.

* * *

Two weeks later, the sky explodes in green fire.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s been a month since the fabric of reality was ripped, and they’re holed up in a cave alongside thirty-odd refugees.  Alistair’s been doing his best at training the able-bodied, but if either one of them dies, the place will be overrun in days.  One of the gashes is visible from the cave’s entrance, and it’s probably just as much a deterrent to the brigands as they are.  That’s not at all to say that they’re safe, though.

The rift erupts to life two hours before dawn.  They don’t figure out why until much later, when they find a thief, no older than sixteen, staring sightlessly at the sky.  For now, it’s all they can do to keep everyone safe from the onslaught of demons.

Word of recent events has been scarce in these parts, but she knows _something_ must have happened to keep more holes from popping up, from keeping the big one, the one they can see even in the Hinterlands, from growing.  She doesn’t expect it to be a bald dwarf with a green scar on his hand and a mouth that can outrun Alistair’s on a good day.

Alistair’s just spun her behind him so she doesn’t get caught in the smite he unleashes on the demons. It’s how she catches sight of the Terror rising from the ground. She freezes it solid, and that’'s when she hears it—something between a buzz and a hum, like a swarm of bees descending on one hapless thistle. Then there’s a thunderclap, and for a moment the Veil feels _normal_ —and the demon in front of her reels, and topples over. She stabs it with the blade of her staff, shattering it, and turns around.

Opposite the battlefield are two dwarves, one firing bolts from an excessive-looking crossbow; a human warrior deflecting an icy ray with her shield; and an unassuming elven mage that calmly knocks two rage demons together with a wave of his hand. It’d be the start to a tavern joke if it didn’t remind her so keenly of Mahariel, and the rest of the odd crew she and Alistair spent the better part of a year with. Once the last of the demons is dispatched, the other dwarf raises his shield arm, and a ray of green light pulls at the rip. The sky roars, and then, with a stentorian cry of, “ _Punch!_ ” he suits the action to the word and the air is clear.

She looks down. The only sign that anything was ever the matter are the bits of demonic ichor clumped on the grass.

“Well,” Alistair says, an impressed frown on his face, “That looks handy.”

The dwarf lifts a handaxe from a pile of ichor and begins wiping it down. “Isn’t it just?” he says. “Believe me, if I knew how I got it I’d arm everyone with one of these things.”

Alistair winces. “That was _terrible_!”

“Really? I had you fingered for for a man that appreciates a good pun!”

The human warrior scoffs, but there’s respect in her eyes as she walks toward them. She opens her mouth to speak, but the dwarf with the green scar cuts her off. “You wouldn’t _believe_ how relieved I am to find some other sodding people who don’t want to murder everyone! Oh, all right, Mother Giselle didn’t want to murder anyone, but she also wasn’t out there killing any sodding demons! Now _this_!” He’s striding past them, nodding approvingly at the still-green refugees who’d followed them into battle. “Defending the innocent! Giving them combat training! _Not killing each other! This_ , I can get behind!” He spins on his toe and gives them a toothy grin. “You, my friends, look like Inquisition material. What say you?”

She frowns at the name plucked straight from a history book, and looks at Alistair, who’s quicker on the uptake. “Someone thought it’d be a good idea to call themselves the Inquisition? Whose bright idea was that?”

“The late Divine’s,” the woman replies. “I am Cassandra Pentaghast, Right Hand of the Divine, and it is under her orders that the Inquisition was reborn.”

They exchange a look of surprise.

“You really haven’t heard of the Mighty Inquisition, Last Great Hope of Thedas?” says the bald dwarf. “What, have you been living under a rock for the past month or something?”

She and Alistair gesture simultaneously to the ceiling of the cave behind them.

He laughs. “All right, I guess I walked straight into that one, figuratively speaking. Seriously, though, you ought to join us. Ancestors know we could use every bit of help we can get right now.”

“And your example would serve many well in these trying times,” Cassandra adds.

Alistair’s eyes widen, and his lips purse in thought. But there are thirty of their neighbors under their care, and it seems wrong to leave them behind. After a quick wordless exchange, she has their answer. “We’ll think about it.”

* * *

Three days later, the surrounding countryside is clear, and the Inquisition returns. Alistair’s a touch nervous about it, now that they’ve talked it over, but he readily admits most of that is because the Seeker could probably crush him with their pinkie and has ample reason to, if his suspicions that she knows exactly what he used to be are correct.

The letter with Caron’s seal feels too light in her hands.

What the dwarf with the marked hand brings them, though, is a rolled up note from _Leliana_ of all people. _Join the Inquisition, my friends. Show those who have been yoked under the Chantry that there is a better way._

The words dissolve like meringue on her tongue—sweet, airy, and unfilling. She didn’t fall in love with a templar; she fell in love with Alistair. If all the templars were like him, things would never have gotten to this point.

They didn’t walk through bloody battlefields to be gawked at, made into some kind of shining object lesson in love and tolerance.

They tell the Inquisition, “No.”


	3. Chapter 3

Alistair tries not to watch her out of the corner of his eye as he nails planks over their shattered windows. They’d buy oilcloth from Redcliffe, but he’s not entirely sure any merchants are left. There’s no point in even thinking about glass.

He tries not to watch her.

But it’s a very tricky thing, this ‘not watching her’ business, because the years have made her only lovelier, even when her heart’s breaking. She’s looking up at the charred half of the oak tree— _their_ oak tree, _her_ oak tree—and caressing its bark until her palm is covered with soot. Finally he yields, sets down his hammer, and wraps her in his arms. “I know it’s not really much of a consolation, but we can get another one.”

“I know,” she says, turning into his embrace. “But they take so long to grow.”

“Then we’ll get another house,” he replies. “Or move back to Rainesfere. Or... I don’t know, isn’t there Dalish magic that can make them grow faster? Or heal this one! Velanna would know.”

“The Wardens disappeared,” she says, her voice flat.

 _Oh_. Oh, that won’t do at all. He takes her face in his hands, tilts it so she’s looking right in his eyes, and pours all the love he can into her whispered name.

She blinks rapidly a few times before burying her face in his shirt. “Did we do the right thing?”

He doesn’t have to ask what she’s talking about. “Love... we have a home, and a hamlet’s worth of people who’ve decided for some reason that they can depend on us. We can’t just up and leave them, and who knows how good this Inquisition will be, in the long run. Besides, _one_ of Teagan’s knights ought to stay behind.”

He feels her sigh. “Have you heard anything else?”

“Hardly,” he says, chuckling. “I think Teagan has a good deal more on his plate right now than keeping me informed. He should be in Denerim by now, though, if he made good time.” He shakes his head, and returns to his work. It all happened so fast, he hardly knows what to do with himself. But he won’t abandon these people; the lives they built for themselves. Not yet.

* * *

The Inquisition falls, and with it, rumors from the mountains preposterous enough enough that he’d never have believed them if he hadn’t fought through a Blight and heard the truth of Kirkwall firsthand. His heart is heavy when he thinks of Leliana, and the people they met in the cave seemed decent sorts, but at night all he can feel is gratitude that they don’t share their fate—and guilt, for not feeling worse.

Teagan invites them to Redcliffe Castle for tea, and he’s able to put some of the gossip to rest. The castle is still recovering from the magister’s blessedly temporary coup, but it’s a surprisingly decent spread, which makes Alistair’s insides go a little wobbly. Somehow he’s managed to get himself a family, and he’s not entirely sure what he’s done to deserve it. (Nothing, he decides. Not that he’s complaining.)

The rumors of the dragon (Archdemon, one refugee had said, but Alistair doesn’t believe it) are just that, but Teagan confirms that the attacking army was the remainders of the Templar Order—only _wrong_ , somehow, corrupted—the man who caught sight of the moving army said there were giant rubies stuck in their bodies, rubies that _glowed_. Whoever was leading them, it’s clear that the Order as Alistair knew it is no more. Names he hasn’t thought of in years flash through his mind—Dorin, Erhyn, Brent, Bran... Some of them, he knows, died in Uldred’s uprising, but he doesn’t remember who. Cullen survived—if it could be called that.

He feels cool skin on his hand. “Alistair?”

Alistair blinks, and returns to himself. She’s laid her hand atop his, looking at him solicitously, and he turns his palm up and laces their fingers.

“You were Fade-walking,” she says.

He squeezes her hand. “I’m all right,” he replies softly, and consoles himself with the knowledge that he’d probably never have survived long enough to join them. He doubts the templars stopped at the Aeonar on their way to sack Haven, after all.

* * *

That night he dreams he’s in a battle chaotic as Denerim, but it’s on a snow-swept mountainside and there’s a distinct lack of darkspawn. He can feel the Veil ripple as mage and templar clash, more clearly than he’s felt since quitting the lyrium. He _has_

_There!_

He sees her, the elements swirling round her like a second cloak, standing atop a small hillock. There’s a fell light in her eyes, and an unseen wind lifts her robes.

He runs.

The mountain’s much steeper than it looks, because of _course_ it is, and when he trips he’s greeted with a face full of snow and the sound of metal boots thudding past him. _No!_ Spitting the ice from his mouth, he scrabbles up the mountain, kicking back snow and scree as he struggles for purchase. Just a few steps more...

And then she’s there in front of him, weaving new realities with her hands, and he catches one relieved smile on her lips before her eyes widen in fear.

He turns around just in time to see the ballista bolt slam into his chest—no, _through_ his chest, as it registers that the sharp cry he hears behind him is more pain than shock. She collapses a moment before he does, and the last thing he sees is their blood mingling together, steaming crimson in the snow...

(He awakens gasping, with tears starting in his eyes, and doesn’t let her go the rest of the night.

* * *

One month later, they’re returning from a rather vigorous sparring (actually _and_ euphemistically) session in a secluded part of the hills to find a cheery-looking dwarf sitting on their threshold. It takes him a moment to recognize her in armor. “Lace? I thought... didn’t your mother say you’d run off to join the Inquisition?” He realizes, belatedly, that he’d entirely forgotten she had. He forgot to mourn her, though her living, breathing self in front of him has rendered that particular issue moot.

“I did!” she says, standing up. “It’s ‘Scout Harding,’ now.” She salutes them both, entirely too chipper for someone whose comrades just got wiped off the map. “It’s been wonderful working for them; I’ve seen so many things I’d only read about.”

His better half steps forward. “Then,” she says carefully, “what are you doing so close to home?”

“Scouting, of course,” Lace says. “For you, specifically. I was told to give this to you.” She hands her a tightly furled paper.

Alistair does a terrible job of trying not to read it over her shoulder, especially when its contents make him jolt. “Er... when was this sent?”

“Two days ago, why?” There’s a subtle smile playing on her lips. “Anyway, I’m bound for Crestwood, so I’d better get going. It was nice seeing you again, and I hope you don’t mind if I hope you join us. It’d be nice having another couple of familiar faces in Skyhold.”

_Skyhold _. Should he know where that is? Aware he’s standing there slack-jawed, waiting for the drool to start dripping from his mouth, he mumbles something about thinking about it, even though they’ve already thought about it plenty.__

“Thanks, Alistair. You’ll have to let me know how you met the Nightingale if you decide to join us.”

“ _Huh_ ,” he mutters, as the dwarf disappears over the rise.

He hears her curse, and mutely takes up the proffered note.

> _Rumors of the Inquisition's demise are premature. We have an Inquisitor, and the identity of the one who caused the Breach. His reach is long, however, and we have need of skilled agents who can disrupt his plans._
> 
> _I hope, with the lessening of hostilities in the Hinterlands, that you are in a position to reconsider assisting us. Friends and reliable allies are so few in these troubled times._
> 
> _\- Leliana_

He returns the note. “Well, I’d think of something clever to say, but I think you’ve already got us covered.”


	4. Chapter 4

She’s resisting the urge to grip his arm as they walk across the bridge leading to Skyhold—she wouldn’t be doing it for the cold, and she doesn’t need the excuse. She has no reason to be afraid.

“Have you given Teagan’s request any further thought?”

Alistair sighs. “I’m... still trying to think of the best way to go about it. I guess it all depends on how much the Inquisition is, ‘Hey, do you like continued existence? So do we!’ and how much it’s ‘Pity if something were to happen to it.’”

She laughs, and says, “Well, they didn’t seem particularly evil the first time we met them. Besides, Leliana trusts them.”

His smile falters at that, but only for a second. “ _Or_ , we’ve been corresponding with her evil twin the whole time, and the moment we step inside that castle, down goes the portcullis and out pop the assassins.”

“Don’t worry,” she says, “I’ll keep you safe,” and her unease from earlier dissipates, like snow subliming in the sun.

Leliana greets them at the gate, kissing both their cheeks, and leads them up to the battlements before any crowds can gather. She’s grateful for the discretion, especially for Alistair’s sake—Maker, if word of the Landsmeet gets out...

“You’ll be reporting to the Commander of the Inquisition’s forces,” Leliana is telling them. “The Inquisitor can’t be everywhere at once, and there are a number of independent operations too dangerous or delicate to trust to regular forces. We’ve managed to attract talent from a number of places.”

She frowns at the Sister at that—hadn’t she said they were hard to find? But before she can say anything, the door to the tower in front of them bursts open and the Inquisitor steps out.

She can tell when he recognizes them by the expression on his face. “ _Not-Killing-Each-Other_!” he cries, raising his arms and striding as quickly as a dwarf’s legs will allow. “Sodding glad you decided to join us! This is going to be _fantastic_. We have blood mages, red templars, bears, darkspawn, demons, dragons... all asking for someone to stop them from making others’ lives miserable. So, what’s your poison?”

She and Alistair exchange a look.

“Darkspawn are a bit ‘old hat’ for us,” Alistair says, “although that’s actually a good thing if you need to remember how to fight them ten years later.”

“But really, it’s best if you have Grey Wardens for that,” she adds. “We’d rather not risk getting tainted.”

“Well, we’re working on that bit,” Cadash says, turning around and walking them back to the tower. “Still, given that we were at, ‘Zero Wardens, anywhere’ at the start of this thing and now we’re at, ‘Two, with the Inquisition,’ I think we’re doing pretty sodding well. But that doesn’t mean we can’t do better! Now, I don’t actually _make_ all the assignments, because the last time I tried to micromanage to that level—well, long story short, I wound up with a hundred fifty hogsheads of pickled nug to fence, three angry widows to wrangle, and a non-theoretical understanding of hangovers, which I didn’t even know was possible at the time. But—I’m getting ahead of myself. _I_ don’t make the assignments, but fortunately the guy who does works for me, now, so if you don’t like them you know who to complain to.” They reach the door. “And _here_ ,” he says, smiling genially, “he is.” He opens the door and grandly steps inside. “Commander,” he says, “I bring you more agents.”

“Send them in,” a man’s voice calls out, and something pricks in the back of her mind. They step inside to see a slicked blond head of hair bent over some papers. He finishes the sentence he’s writing, drags his quill over the blotter twice, wipes it, caps the ink, and looks up. “Ah,” he says. “Leliana had mentioned you might be joining us. Allow me to welcome you to the Inquisition.”

He’s looking right at Alistair, who’s taken a protective half-step in front of her, and she doesn’t know whether that’s because he’s afraid of seeing a monster, or seeing the apprentice he knew ten years ago. Does _he_ even know?

“Well!” says Alistair. “This is an unexpected reunion. We won’t pose you any problems, will we, Commander?”

“No,” Cullen replies quietly, “I’m quite certain you won’t.”

“Good,” Alistair says, and there’s steel to his voice.

“There’s... a damn fine story here, isn’t there?” Cadash says. She shoots him a _look_ before she remembers that he’s the most important person in the castle, but mercifully, he takes the hint, apologizes, and actually shuts his mouth.

“Perhaps if someone could show us to our room?” she asks, and Cadash claps his hands together and leads them away.

He passes them off to a servant, who leads them to a side room overlooking the gardens—somehow someone’s managed to get a tree to grow at this altitude—and it blessedly comes with a double bed. Suddenly weary, they strip off their coats and lie down, still clothed, next one another.

Alistair breaks the silence first. “I’d heard the Inquisition’s commander was one of the templars that broke from the Order, but... I’d never have guessed it’d be _him_.”

“He _has_ to have changed,” she reasons, to herself as much as to him. “The Inquisition recruited the mages, after all, and he’s still working for them. I think we would have heard if he were calling for mass executions.”

“He’d _better_ have changed,” Alistair half-grumbles, half-growls, but she can hear the old wound underneath it all, and when he turns away from her she curls up against his back, laying her arm over his stomach. Cullen was his only friend, once. 

* * *

For a brand new organization claiming to be the last hope of Thedas, there are a surprising number of familiar faces in the Inquisition. In addition to the Spymaster and Commander, Alistair recognizes the stablemaster from his childhood home, and she swears she’s seen their small-‘E’ enchanter before. (It isn’t until she asks for a rather enthusiastic life story that she realizes how much they have in common.) There’s even a brief, awkward, and entirely too small reunion among the Kinloch mages who managed to survive Uldred, the uprising, and Tevinter.

And then there’s the time that Joseph sits down next to her and swipes the fluffy croissant that was supposed to be breakfast from her plate. “ _Joe_?” she gasps, before eying the plate of food he’s already acquired—of course, Warden appetites.

She steals a sticky bun back. There’s a fresh scar on his other cheek, and beneath his smile she can see the weariness in his eyes.

“You’re wearing your Warden blues,” she says.

Joseph shrugs. “You never really leave the Grey Wardens,” he says. “Besides, I was tired of running—which is the last time I ask the Maker for _anything_.”

“What happened?” she asks, and he tells her. She can tell he’s leaving out some details— _why_ , exactly, the Wardens are working for Corypheus isn’t entirely clear—but she hears enough. She has to stop him, though, when she finds out who he’s been working with.”

“Hawke? _Really_? But she killed Anders! She annulled the Gallows!”

“Oh, thanks for the reminder,” he scoffs. “Somehow those details must have escaped me.”

“Then why are you _working_ with her?”

Joseph’s eyes darken. “You haven’t met Corypheus,” he says. “But I was there when we killed him the first time, and—Hawke may be a worthless excuse for scum, but she is incredibly talented at making things die. I can’t think of anyone better suited to making sure he _stays_ dead this time—and believe me, I’ve _tried_ —so the sooner that happens, the sooner I can go back to hating her comfortably.”

She lays a tentative hand on his back, runs it up and down. “Joseph...”

“I know,” he says. “I don’t like it, either.”

She and Alistair leave for their first mission shortly thereafter. It’s a brief one, disrupting smugglers on the Storm Coast (and shouldn’t there be an Arl in charge of this instead?). Most of their difficulty comes from their comrades, who get along about as well as a sack of feral cats. They spend more effort trying to recreate the congenial evenings of a decade ago when they camp than they do actually fighting the smugglers, and it’s hard not to chafe at the roles they’ve been placed in once more. But nobody inquires much into their past, and at mission’s end they’re all working together a little better than they did before.

When they return, the Inquisitor, Joseph, and Hawke are in Orlais investigating the Wardens. They’re taking tea in the rookery when the raven announcing the Inquisition’s intentions to go to war arrives.


End file.
